Torchwood :: Time And Motion
by MekQuarrie
Summary: At last, Andy Davidson can step out of the shadows. Finally he's in charge... But of what? :: Post-COE meanderings.
1. Chapter 1

Davidson stood at the edge of the pit, his trenchcoat flapping in the wind. Despite the darkness, and the rain, construction work was well underway in the hole that had been The Hub. He had vaguely been aware of what Torchwood did, but that was all gone. Blown into little pieces.

"Director?" said a voice behind him. "Andy? Your wife's on the phone."

He turned and straightened the flat police cap on his head. Cowie was gesturing to the big white Land Rover. She hid her irritation as best she could.

"Alright, Vic. Tell her I'll be there in a second." He had a last look at the new foundations. Soon enough, there would be a new structure under the surface, the market would come back, people would forget, but he would remember.

**:::**

"Where do they get all this bloody money from, Andy?" asked the First Minister. He tapped his thumb on his assistant's electronic pad and turned back to Davidson. The Senedd chamber was almost empty. The clerks were chatting idly.

"I have a personnel budget, First Minister," said Davidson. "Makes me feel important, I suppose. The buildings and the equipment are all provided by London. Somewhere like that." He pressed his braided cap against the side of his dress uniform. Although there were Special Branch officers standing marginally out of sight and Assembly security officers casually guarding the doors, he felt a bit out of place in the debating chamber. Politics was for the politicians.

"Listen, Andy. I have little enough to spend without it looking like I'm trying to run a police state. Think parish council with aspirations to the Ryder Cup. The more of the cost of this nest of vipers you can get off my books the better." He nodded warmly to the leader of Plaid Cymru as she marched from the chamber with her advisors._ "Nos da."_

"Surely you have more say if you chip in to the payroll? You'll have more control if police officers start firing machine guns on your streets." He looked around at the rows of laptops, randomly open and closed, then up at the few remaining spectators in the visitors gallery. A couple of tourists were taking non-flash photographs, probably counter to instructions on the way in.

The First Minister's eyes locked onto Davidson's gaze. "I'm relying on you, my boy, to take care of that. They're your bloody streets too." He stared unblinking for a second then nodded away to the exit. "Off you go now. We'll chat again." He turned back to his assistant.

Davidson fixed the hat formally on his head. "Sir," he replied, then left.

**:::**

"Should I drive you home?" said Cowie. She sat relaxed in the drivers seat. Her inflection implied he might change his earlier plans.

He placed the cap on his lap, looked down briefly as he buckled up and turned to her. "I have to go home sometime," he said. "Sorry Vic."

She switched on the engine and checked for traffic in the wing mirror. There were no other vehicles in the secure parking lot. "Don't whine, Andy. If you've gotta go, you've gotta go." The Land Rover lurched into the security-only lane and accelerated on its way. "What did Dafydd say?" she queried. The Land Rover mounted the ramp to street level and emerged into the glare of street lamps.

He looked down at his lap. "Damn all. Wants to keep his nose clean. Probably more worried about the Greens voting him out."

Cowie tutted. "I could punch his bloody nose. He could keep the Nest above board. Just because it might cost him a penny or two, he'll leave it in the shadows." She let the Land Rover coast thru a set of red signals, her hand flipping on the blue warning lights briefly.

Davidson sighed. "Don't call it that, Vic. It's… It's…"

"You don't know," she teased. "You're the boss. And you don't know what it's called."

"Of course I know." He fished his cellphone from his pocket and toyed with making a call. He decided a message would be easier.

"You won't say." She started to laugh.

"Special Control. Tactical Control…" He was not concentrating on the conversation, just trying to struggle with interpretive text.

She remained silent for a few more minutes. "When are you back on?"

"First thing in the morning," he said. "I'm never off-duty now. These bloody machines will take up every minute of my time."

"Oh," she said. "I have the weekend off. I thought about going round the coast for a couple of days."

He sighed and put the phone in his shirt pocket. "Where were you thinking of going? I'm in Cardiff during the days. But. You know…"

"God. Of course I know. But just say the words, Andy."

He bumbled again. "I could be away on business. You know. For an evening. Maybe overnight on Saturday? Bristol's not too far."

She sighed. "Don't kill yourself, Andy. A few hours off for a fumble might be a bit of a strain after all. And do we really have to go to England for a shag? Does everyone in Wales really know or give a shit who you are?" The Land Rover rattled to a stop as the wheels churned into the mud at the side of the road.

Davidson looked around. It was one of the quieter roads out of town, near some farm steadings.

"Let's just do it here," said Cowie. "Then I can visit the market on Saturday with some of the girls from Traffic." She released the seat belt buckle and let the belt slide back over her.

"Here?" He glanced around in the darkness. "I'm not really in the mood for that."

"Shut up," she said, slipping along beside him. Then with ill-practised clumsiness she held onto his shoulders and swung her leg around him.

Davidson felt a little more enthusiastic as the heat of her chest warmed his face. But his flush of passion was cooled quickly. A large pale face had flashed past the window.

"You dirty bastard," he started to say. But the heavy windshield was already cracking. He had a fraction of a second to protect Cowie's head before another blow shattered the heavy glass inwards. He screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Shit," said Davidson and fired. "Shit," he said and fired again.

**:::**

"You're a real hero, Andy," said a familiar voice.

Davidson's eyelids resisted the strong light of the hospital room. "Don't call me, Andy, Kath Simpson," he hissed. His arms were stiff under the sheets. He could feel a drip line in his right forearm and the firm grip of a pressure cuff on his upper left arm.

"It's not 'Boss' yet, Andy." She leaned forward as much as her stab jacket would allow. He could see genuine concern in her face. "We got called out with all the other units. That thing made quite a mess of your Land Rover. And you made quite a mess of its head. But there were other attacks around the city too. A bit of a crazy night."

He started to recall more of the evening and tried to sit up, but all his muscles were wracked with cramp. "How's Vic? Jesus. Is she alright?"

A second voice chipped in from over his shoulder. "She's fine, Boss. Cuts and powder burns. You obviously weren't too rough with her."

Davidson turned to face Allie Simpson. She was braced as best she could on the edge of the window frame. "Hi," he sighed. He wrinkled his nose, sniffed, and turned back to the other Simpson. "Right. Status update."

"No," said Kath Simpson. "You're signed off sick at the moment. We'll report thru the regular channels until the Nest is up and running."

Davidson growled and slapped the bed sheets. "Stop calling it the Nest. This is precisely what the Directorate is about. Get the other candidates on the phone and get some numbers together for me. And photos and maps on a laptop."

Allie Simpson stepped forward, and subconsciously jingled the cuffs at her waist. "Let me do all that. Kath can taser your wife when she turns up." She winked at her partner and left.

**:::**

Chadha wiped the blood from his turban with both hands and looked around for a sink. "That was a small one?" he said to himself.

There was a commotion at the door of the cell and a violent crash of keys in the lock. Two armed officers filled the doorway, pistols pointed expertly at Chadha and the body on the floor. "Armed police! Do not move!" More uniformed figures crowded into the dim corridor beyond.

Chadha rinsed his red-stained hands under the brass tap, wiped the water from his hands on his stab-jacket and took a deep breath. "Don't worry. It's dead. Your lack of haste is disappointing."

The first officer advanced and kneeled touching the twitching form on the floor. "No sign of life, Sir," he whispered to his colleague.

The second officer, three white bars adorning the shoulders of his black shirt, holstered his gun and nodded to Chadha. "We got here as fast as we could, Constable. Those doors are bulletproof. You know that." He turned to the crowd of police officers in the hall and ordered them away with a twitch of his head. "Reports! Everyone. No-one go off shift either. All of your time is now police time."

They were left alone. "Are they those Weevils I used to hear about?" asked Chadha. He felt a coolness lingering around his arms and legs. Not fear. Perhaps something else.

"Who knows? We all heard things, young man. But let's not give it a name until we're sure. Just a big mess to clear up. Then explanations." He stared at the shape on the floor. An inordinate amount of blood was accumulating on the ground. "Did you pull its head off?"

Chadha rubbed his forehead. "I was trying to do a nelson hold on him. Must have snapped some of those neck bones. The blood came from it tearing at itself afterwards. Not pleasant."

The sergeant's face looked queasy. "We could hear," he ventured.

A first-aider appeared at the door with a clipboard. "Sergeant Evans?" he asked. "Officer Chadha will need to go to hospital and he'll also have to fill in a prisoner death report. Legal support will talk to him later."

Evans nodded helpfully. "The constable here won't need any further treatment. All his reports will go straight to Andy Davidson's Directorate." He waved the bemused administrator out of the cell. "Now, Constable. I have a dozen other captives that I have to handle very carefully."

**:::**

Cowie awoke abruptly. She called out. "Andy?" But there was no reply. The faint hum of a heart monitor and the mumbled radio weather report were the only reassuring things around her.

**:::**

Her eyes flickered open again. Two men in sea-green hospital scrubs were in hushed discussion at the foot of the bed. The friendliest looking one moved forward to her and looked into her eyes.

"Excellent," he said, clapping his hands together. "The isoflurane has worn off. How are we doing?" She realized he was inspecting her pupils closely.

"I'm fine," she said quietly. But her head was thumping like the reverend mother of all hangovers. "My tongue feels dead. I could do with some water."

"Yes," he said. "Nurse?" The other man poured ice-cold water from a jug into a little plastic cup.

Her right hand reached out, cold and shaking, but she managed to hold the cup and quaff the water in one go.

"Could you just confirm your name to me?" said the doctor. He looked carefully at her forehead.

"It's Vic," she whispered with a little cough. "Police Constable Victoria Cowie. Where's Andy?" She looked around. The room was small but modern. From the furnishings she might even be in a private hospital.

"Is Andy your husband?" said the nurse. "We can contact him if you like?"

Cowie felt dizzy and tried to stabilize her focus. A thought was creeping in.

"No," she said. "Andy was in the car with me. Wasn't he brought in at the same time?"

The doctor nodded reassuringly. "There were a lot of attacks around the city. Lots of people went to a lot of different hospitals, just as the incident plan requires. Don't worry. We'll find your boyfriend for you."

"Thank you," she said and let her eyes flicker closed. The creeping thought overwhelmed her. _"Where am I?"_


	3. Chapter 3

"They promised us robots," laughed Allie Simpson.

Like an eager puppy, Henderson strained to talk thru the gap in the plastic glass that separated the front of the cruiser from the passengers in the back. "That Andy Davidson. He gets all the folders marked 'crazy'. Ever since Gwen went off to join that advanced knitting school or whatever."

His partner, Smitt, laughed aloud and joined in while continuing to drive. "Yeah. Some kind of ninja dressmaking outfit. Nice tits though."

"Whatever happened to her?" asked Simpson.

"Who knows. Once they go off to have kids, you never know if they're coming back." He did a half-turn. "No offence of course. I'm sure you and your sister are alright."

Simpson resisted the urge to laugh out loud. "My sister? Sure. We're no threat to the foundations of Law and Order." She giggled and looked out of the window.

**:::**

"I don't know why people complain about hospital food," said Davidson. "This curry's bloody great." He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and returned to the grubby Chromebook on the table. They had cordoned off a section of the canteen area with trellis style partitions and set up whatever equipment they could find on the middle row of tables.

Two well-dressed men with trays of food approached the quiet area. Possibly doctors. Kath Simpson folded her arms across her chest and smiled flatly.

"'Police', guys. That means you can eat anywhere you want. Just not here." She tilted her head to the other parts of the canteen.

They wandered away, muttering to each other.

"Bitchy," she remarked turning back to Davidson. "Can you get it to work? The wi-fi is a bit shit. What do you need it to do?"

He looked up. "Just the news really. They usually have a snazzy map or reconstruction, even when a garden gnome goes missing in Swansea."

"Nothing wrong with Swansea," said Simpson. "Allie and I go there a lot to see her folks."

He clicked again. "Bloody laptop is no good, Kath. Get me a news channel on the telly then."

Simpson closed over the Chromebook and looked at him firmly. "Don't overexert yourself. The incidents seem to be over. No more than forty attacks. Terrorists, anarchists, activists. Take your pick. Everything being tidied up. One unfortunate civilian death, Olympic medallist with a shotgun, but nothing to call for a state of emergency."

He pressed his lips together firmly. "You and I know they weren't…" He paused. To use the wrong word might mark him as delirious. "...Normal." Simpson rocked her head, ambivalent.

"Where's Vic?" he said quietly.

"We're checking, Andy. A fellow officer is a priority."

**:::**

"Don't get sucked out," shouted Sheila. "Not yet."

The access panel was wrenched from Tony's grip and he was left staring at the ground miles below. His fingers gripped the metal edge and he felt his entire body go cold. He was going to be sick.

Now the sound of the stratospheric wind and the enormous engines of the flying carrier made it impossible to talk. Sheila pulled up the hood of her jump-suit and straightened the giant mirrored ski-glasses. She raised a thumb to indicate that she was ready.

He looked skeptically at the bulging chute on her back, then glanced briefly at the timer on the fuses and felt his heart leap in his throat. 30-29-...

"Shit," he shouted and lurched sideways to grab onto her waist.

He could feel a thrilled laugh running thru her body as they both tumbled out of the ship and into the terrible, empty sky. 25-24…

**:::**

"Just stay here, Allie," said Henderson. "We'll move these jokers out of the road."

"Stay at the wheel, Smitty," said Simpson. "I'll get out." She waited for Henderson to open the rear door and let her step onto the sidewalk with him.

"You're still my prisoner," he joked. "Stay out of trouble."

The suburban traffic was backed up all the way along the short bridge toward a cramped junction where three roads joined.

It became clear that an articulated lorry had been involved in a misunderstanding at the traffic signals. The cab of the tractor was planted firmly into the brickwork of a historic two-story inn.

"That's going to need the Fire Brigade boys," said Henderson, tapping the radio on his chest. "See if there's a way to direct the traffic behind it, Allie."

She nodded and worked her way around the trailer. She caught a glimpse of Henderson as he mounted the running step to the cab.

Behind the trailer, cars were again backed up across a narrow two-lane stone bridge. The lead vehicle was trying to squeeze up on the sidewalk but a safety railing was preventing anything ambitious.

Simpson raised her palm and pointed at the road back over the bridge. "Turn it around," she shouted firmly. "Find another way over."

There was a short lull while skeptical drivers allowed the first vehicle to turn and then a general roar as engines were forced to jerk cars forwards and back in little motions.

Simpson glanced back to the trailer and saw that the rear of the trailer was close to the railing of the bridge directly over the little river. But it was steady and there was no immediate risk of it tumbling backwards.

She turned back to the traffic. The overlapping competition to be first to return over the bridge had caused a miniature gridlock among the two dozen cars. She scowled.

"_Driver's dead, Smitty,"_ her radio crackled. _"Probably. Allie? How's the traffic on your end?"_

She looked at the situation, and pressed the send button. "Sorted," she chuckled.

She turned to look over the trailer again. The dark blue tarpaulin was shiny and taut down the sides. Apart from some Reading phone numbers, there was little to indicate what was inside.

She pressed the send button on her radio again. "How about running the plates, Henderson? Someone will be missing this guy and his load sooner or later."

"_Crowd control first, Allie,"_ Henderson crackled. _"Amateur sleuths second."_

Smitt interrupted. _"The automatic recognition already did it for us, Hendo. It's a bit odd."_


	4. Chapter 4

The cackle of seagulls drifted thru the window of the caravan. Cowie loved the sea air and a cool breeze on a warm day. "Andy?" she asked quietly.

There was no reply. She rubbed her eyes, pushed back the light woolen blanket over her chest and looked around the empty living space. Definitely not a hospital.

Trees blocked the view from the main picture window, but it was obvious from the side windows that she was sitting in one of a long row of holiday caravans. Some cars, motorbikes and drying towels suggested that the caravan park was open for business.

Cowie sat up and swung her legs to the floor. Whoever had left her here, had dressed her in a pair of reasonable quality women's pajamas. Probably from John Lewis, she thought. She tried to recall the sequence of events again. Doctors and broken glass. Pistol shots and a drip in the arm. But it was hard to get things in the right order.

A digital radio and a kettle shared the power sockets by the little sink in the kitchen area. She switched on both and let the sounds of her own normal life fill the air.

After a welcome brew she wiped her face and found a light raincoat in the small closet by the door and pulled it over her nightwear. As she stepped down barefoot onto the gravel of a reserved parking bay, the buzz of a quadbike descended.

An older man in maintenance clothes bounced past at a running pace, but she managed to raise her arms and wave before he disappeared from view.

"Hey. Stop. Police." She could not think of what really to say.

He pushed a baseball cap back over his shiny hair. "What's that, my dear? You need the police?"

"No. No. I'm the police. I need to get to a phone."

"Well, my dear. No problem there. It's only a caravan park. But we've got the electricity along with the gas and I can get a fair signal on my mobile. You running late? Something important?" He nodded to her nightwear.

She smiled. "Just give me the phone, thanks."

**:::**

Chadha twirled the pasta around on his fork and held his forehead again. The thumping in his temple was coming and going. Kath Simpson had sent him four text messages. He was reluctant to reply. He was reluctant to talk to anyone at the moment.

"How's lunch?" said Kaplan, the tall cafe owner as he passed the table. "My sister is very good with the Italian food, no?" He nodded to a bemused young woman at the counter.

Chadha looked up. "Yes," he said quietly. "It's excellent. All very fresh."

"Good. She is good with all types of food. What do you like? She can do the Jain food if you like that?"

Chadha smiled to himself. "No, the veggie is great. It's perfect."

The owner smiled knowingly. "Good. Today is free. But you come back and bring all your police friends." He winked clumsily.

"I'll pass on my recommendation. But I have to pay. Put the money in your 'orphans' moneybox if you wish. Excuse me." He proffered a ten-pound note and looked awkwardly down at his cellphone as if something important had come in. Kaplan walked back to the register with a fixed smile.

Chadha reviewed the curt, poorly typed messages.

"_Call me Chad Kath"_

"_Its kath Nest on come in"_

"_Chadha?"_

"_Your so fired!"_

It was fairly obvious that his help was needed with Davidson's Directorate, but something had removed the fire from his belly.

**:::**

"It's going to go," shouted Allie Simpson. The trailer shook from within and rolled forward and back on its massive wheels.

"_Hendo!"_ shouted Smitt thru the radio._ "Get off the truck."_

The trailer bounced back again and crumpled the railing marking the edge of the bridge. Simpson stepped back along the deck of the bridge and waved away transfixed pedestrians.

The trailer shook again, as whatever was inside shifted randomly. The fence tore and gave way.

"Bollocks, Smitty," she shouted into the radio. "It's going in the river. Is Hendo clear?"

**:::**

"Chadha," he said as the phone buzzed in his hand. Instantly he regretted it.

"_Whoopy doo. You live,"_ said Kath Simpson.

"It's been a busy night." His eyes flitted to the door of the café, but there was no physical way to escape the call.

"_Well, yes. That's the point of Andy's Directorate. Come over. Put down whatever you're doing. We'll square it with the head ones."_

He sighed and looked away from the phone.

"Okay. How's Allie? No trouble with those… With the trouble."

"_No. We were off duty last night. She's rounding up the other members of the band now."_

"Where are you now? The Nest facility isn't finished yet, is it?

"_No,"_ said Simpson. _"I drove by the other day. They were still shipping out all sorts of toxic shit. We'll set up shop at the harbor."_

"Send me the postcode for the satnav." He sighed. "I'll find you there."

"_Good man."_

"Kath?" He pondered telling her how he felt.

"_What?"_

"Ah, nothing," he replied. "Just take care."

"_Soft lad,"_ she laughed and hung up.

**:::**

Her cellphone was ringing in her hip pocket, but Allie Simpson ignored it. The trailer smashed back thru the gap in the fence and scraped onto the edge. It hung briefly, appearing to pause and settle, but then it pitched suddenly back into the water, dragging the cab back with it.

Simpson hung back watching the street open up horribly before her. As the cab reached the edge of the bridge, sure to pile down onto the carnage of the shattering trailer, she lunged forward and tried desperately to pick out any faces.

Henderson was there, hanging out of the offside door, his lower arm trapped in the twisted frame. In the crumpled gap where the windshield had sat, a twisted form was flailing around beside him.

Smitt was already running from the police car to the accident, but Simpson was nearest and had the fraction of a second needed to reach their colleague. She ran forward and jumped onto the running step.


End file.
